


Festering

by LadyBraken



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crozier being his dad self, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/M, Fluff, Forbidden Snacks, Frozen boys eating stupid things, Hickey' accidental redemption, M/M, Not Only Mentions Of Cannibalism, but not so much, curing your bf from scurvy, global rodent symbolism, misuse of loving relationship, victorian society
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBraken/pseuds/LadyBraken
Summary: They were home.England, at last. after  so many years. Only a few of them, bearing witness. Bearing secrets.Something was wrong. Something in their stomachs, in their teeth, in their mind.They had eaten once, and they couldn't stop eating.Or: where the crew resort to cannibalism and even once back in england, find out they cannot stop.Addendum: The first chapter was rewritten the 23/07/2019. I apologise for the previous mistakes.





	1. Every wound fester

**Author's Note:**

> Hy!  
> So tis is my first terror fic. I must warn you all: this is dark and sometimes graphic. I don't gloss over cannibalism, nor violence, and I cannot put warning in front of every chapters, so concider the warnings for all the chapers.  
> The first chapter is more of an introduction, a bit of fluff before the storm.

_ April 1848 _

“All wounds fester, in these conditions,” Blanky had warned, but Francis knew it too well. Everything would go down from there, and their only hope was to be too stubborn to die before help came their way.    
  


Many of his men had wounds. All of them were sick. Morfin had wounds under his skull, James on his chest, LeVesconte on his feet. Francis wounds were… somewhere else. In the making, perhaps. 

He was the captain, it was his job to keep track of all his men at every hour. He had asked for a detailed report from Goodsir, who had done so with a pained look on his face.    
  


Morfin had been the first one to crack.    
  


Francis had never been so scared. Not for himself--he already had a gun pointed at him, of course. Ha wasn’t sure if he still wanted to live ( _ why do you want to die? _ ) . But this was one of his men,  _ one of his boys,  _ holding a gun and pointing it at the others, pointing it at Harry, at James (before Francis put himself in the line of fire because he’d be damned before his second would be shot--again). His heart seemed to stop when the first shot fired, only to break when the second landed in Morfin’s skull.    
  


He saw Goodsir fall on his knees, lost and sobbing, but he didn’t move. As a captain, he should have protected him, comforted him--and Morfin too, before things escalated. He should have checked on the food, he should have been sober, he should have done anything so that there was no brain splatter up on the snow like a sinister caricature of a child’s painting.    


A hand on his shoulder guided him back into his tent. James, he knew by the pressure of the palm on him. Jopson’ hands were lighter, Blanky would have grabbed his arm, Little wouldn’t have touched him at all. Only James would allow himself to keep contact in such a way. When Francis turned around, there was no pity in James’s eyes, only recognition - and of course of all people James would be the one to know how he felt. 

He remembered still when James had been the sole captain - the line son his face, the darkness in his eyes. The trembling hands, after carnival  _ my fault, my fault, my fault.  _ James , who had had a gun pointed at him only minutes before.    
  


Was James hurt? no, he couldn’t be - it was irrational fear now buried deep-bon in his chest. Yet,  _ yet. _

His hand grabbed James’s and turned it over. He let his palm run over his second’s forearms, his arms before cradling his face in the palms of his hands. James’s eyes had a sad intensity to them, something Francis would have never imagined a few years before. James put his hands on the back of Francis’s and gave him a closed-mouthed smile, one of the true ones that made the corner of his eyes soften and his mouth twist upwards. There were sores on his face already, and wounds at the line of his hair.

_ Scurvy _ .   


Francis wanted to ask him since when did he become sick, why he hadn’t told anyone. If he was ok, if he needed more rest. He wanted to leave the camp right there and now, to walk and walk wand walk without rest because then, maybe,  _ maybe  _ they’ll arrive in time for James to live, for all of them to live. 

It was strange how much passed between them with a simple look. James always had large, dark eyes that showed every little shift of his emotions. It was ridiculous, but so, so beautiful. Like the makeshift of the Boreal Sky, dancing in the green rays of light. Always changing. Moving like the tides, impetuous like the sea.  _ The open sea _ .    
  


“I’m alright, Francis,” James said. He tentatively raised his hand to push back a strand of hair away from Francis’s brow. “We’re alright. The men will be too, you’ll see.” They both knew it was a lie, and yet Francis’s heart seemed to settle a little. He nodded wordlessly and went to settle on their shared cot. 

It was improper for them to share a cot, he knew. But propriety was running away from them with each man down. It was a dangerous thought. That they were so, so far from the civilisation - what would it matter? Who would know? But id no one knew about this, what else could be kept secret?

They would become monsters before the end of this, he knew. He had dreamt it. 

Francis curled up on his side and felt James press himself against his back, giving him warmth and comfort. An arm far too thin came over his waist and James’s fingers drew small, smoothing circles on Francis’s chest, his palm flat against the skin.   


“I will leave no man behind,” whispered Francis with a shaky breath. James’s forehead was tucked against the back of Francis’s neck. 

“I know.”

“Not the sick, not the dying. No one.”

“I know.”

It was a long time before any of them fell asleep. 

\---

_ Every wound festers _ .

It was the first thought that crossed his mind when he saw Cornelius Hickey fall in front of the walking path. The man had been talking about- whatever, to make the ship boy’ laugh. 

Solomon Tozer was the first one to react. He almost ran to take Hickey in his arms and went to put the small man on the boat. But he suddenly stopped.

Francis heard the beginning of a fight and quickly walked towards the edge of the boat.    
  


“What’s happening?” he asked, and immediately the men grew silent. Little looked at him from under his hat, apologetic as only he knew how to be. It was startling how he still managed to keep an air of propriety between everything else. “There’s too many sick men today, Captain. There’s no room for more in the boats.”

“We can’t just leave him here!” cried Tozer. The man looked like he was ready to use his gun to make his point, and Francis knew this could escalate quickly. There was no time, and the men didn’t have the strength to move the material out of the boats to make camp right now. Anger and resentment were a wound as much as everything else, only no doctor could help on this.

“I see. His wounds are on his back?”

Tozer’s eyes widened. Francis saw his feet shift, as if pondering his answer. “Yes, Sir , ” he said finally.    
  


Francis looked down only to catch Hickey staring at him. Cocky as ever. Francis swallow the urge to talk the man down. IT wasn’t the moment - nor the place. He didn’t really think he had the right. 

Despite everything, he was one of his boys. And he would leave none of them behind. He also couldn’t ignore the burning sting of guilt-- _ I did this and yet I knew the risks-- _ but he crushed it down. They were at the beginning of this. He had to endure. Mr Hickey was the one in pein, not he.    
  


“I’ll carry him, then.” he declared. 

“Sir?”

“He cannot go in the boats. I’ll carry him. Now come and help me.”   
  


He didn’t need to say more before the men rushed to help Hickey onto the Captain’s back. The caulker’s mate was small, and lightened both by starvation and exhaustion. When he was sure that his arms were properly hooked over his shoulders, he pushed himself against the boat to get back on his feet.    
  


Hickey’s head fell on his shoulder bonelessly and Francis felt him tense slightly, even if he didn’t make a noise. He didn’t ask Hickey if he was hurting him--considering everything, he probably was , and the man didn’t need further humiliation. 

  
The walk started anew.    
  


Hickey was uncharacteristically silent. The man was after all known - by Crozier, that is - for his running mouth and even more running morals. Francis knew the man had things to say, things to ask. He could feel it in the way his shoulders tensed. It was only after hours in the Arctic’s constant sun that Hickey finally spoke. 

“Why?” he whispered so low that Francis was probably the only one that heard him. There was no question of what Hickey meant -- they were both smart men and Francis knew he had to respect that.    
  


“No matter what happens, Mr Hickey, you’re one of us. You will not be abandoned.”

“Even after what I did?”

There was a silence, and Francis was all too aware of bothe James’ eyes on him and the importance of his answer. 

“You were punished for what you did.” he started, and he could already feel what a pitiful excuse it was. Almost a justification. “It doesn’t matter. Your rank doesn’t matter, your birth doesn’t matter.” 

There was a pregnant pose. Now, he was pretty sure everyone was listening to him.  _ In for a penny - _ “ 

You’re one of us, not because of something you did or didn’t do. Because you’re here, with us. That’s all.”   
  


He didn’t hear an answer, but felt Hickey put his brow back on his shoulder and his breathing even out. He had fallen asleep. 

When he turned towards James, his second noded in approbation. The pride that swelled in Francis was probably a little overdone.

\---

More and more men were sick, but most of them managed to stay on their feet. It was a relief for Francis and James both, even if it would probably be short lived. The gums blackened, as did the fingers and toes. 

Their eyes had become sunken. Their hair was falling, their beards growing, their stomach growling.    
  


Despite everything, and all the prognosis, Hickey would be walking again. Goodsir had said so, with a benevolent smile but a small, familiar twitch of his brow. Francis suspected that if the good doctor could morally force Hickey on bed rest indefinitely, he would do so gladly. The man had, after all, tried to kill Lady Silence. Among other offences.   
  


But Francis knew the quiet, icy resolve in Hickey’s eyes, just like he knows Hickey recognises it in his. It was what made him show more kindness than he ought to. Self-preservation, in a sense. What Hickey was doing, that type of behaviour only appeared when the worst happened to you time and time again. A double-edged sword that allows you to survive the next day. Of course, it didn’t make the man faultless, far from it, but it made him  _ useful _ .    
  


The thing was, they needed food, and they needed it quick. For that, every man mattered; well, some a little bit more than others.

“Because it is needed, and because it is deserved, I’m making a promotion this morning,” Francis said, taking out paper and quill. “An emergency measure, if you will. But one that is wholly sincere.”   
  


He waited until all the eyes around him were bright with curiosity. He could almost  _ feel _ James’s smile at his little trick--he had learnt dramatics from the best, after all. “To my knowledge, this has never been done, but then much of what we are doing has never been done, so I don’t want any confusion over this,” he said as he signed the document and passed it to James. They shared a look.    
  


“Someone on this expedition has earned our trust, respect and confidence in a way that absolutely merits a place at this table,” he said as James rose from his seat. He pretended to go out of the tent when Jopson was right there, before stopping already halfway out.

“Well, gentlemen, we have a new lieutenant to welcome this morning,” he said cheerfully. 

  
“James.” Francis chided, only to receive a false scornful glare. James winked at him and turned abruptly. He held out the document to Thomas. The new lieutenant’s eyes widened as he sought Crozier’s gaze. Francis only smiled at him and nodded in acknowledgement.    
  


“Let me clarify, Jopson, I mean a third lieutenant. There is some modicum of protocol that must be observed, even here.” he joked, if only to allow poor Jopson a moment ot compose himself. 

The other officers looked delighted. Something warm spread in Francis’s chest. It had been a very long time since he had seen his boys’ faces lit up by smiles. Thomas was still staring incredulously from Crozier to his new fellow lieutenants, but there was something proud in the way he squared up his shoulders, in the way he held the document. Little kept patting him on the shoulder while Irving almost jumped from foot to foot in excitement.   
  


“It’s a good thing--what you did,” said James once the officers went out. His face was soft, and open like Francis had rarely seen it. Francis smiled and put his own hand on his second’s, squeezing it lightly. “I’ll make my round at the infirmary and we will go,” he said.

The sicks grew more numerous by the day. Francis took time to talk to all the ones that could and hold the hand of the ones that couldn’t. He owed it to these men. 

They had put their faith in him and were dying all the same.    
  


Rotting on their feet.

Goodsir only gave him one of the painful smiles that were the only ones gracing his face these days, and left the tent. Taking care of the ill was a thankless task. The whole place smelled like salt, death and decay. Francis wasn’t sure anyone could actually get out of here alive. As the days passed, the infirmary looked more like a quiet place to die, sheltered from the unending wind. 

James may have been the first confirmed case of scurvy, but many of the men now showed the symptomes. Including Jopson.   
  


He felt a heavy gaze on his neck. Cornelius Hickey was staring at him. His eyes were still bright from the fever. He had been laid on his belly, with his face turned to the side so as not to bother his wounds. 

Francis sighed and went to sit next to him.   
  


“How are you, Mr Hickey?” he asked. The small man looked at him for a moment, as if waiting for some form of derision or mockery. Finding none, he gave the captain his polite, unhappy smile. It was strange, Francis thought, how none of the man’s smiles came from any form of happiness.    
  


“As well as I can be, Sir.”

“Doctor Goodsir assured me that you will be up in no time. It is a strange thing--a good thing, Mr Hickey, you don’t seem to have lost weight in our travel.”

A pause. 

“I’ve been starved before, Captain.”

“Yes, I had guessed,” he sighed softly. “ _ We all have at some point, _ ” he added in Irish. Surely a bit of home in this gigantic tundra would cheer him up. Something to make him remember that there was an  _ outside _ of here. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say Captain?”   
  


It clicked. Francis didn’t know what had taken him so long, but suddenly, everything seemed clearer. 

  
“Don’t mind me, Mr Hickey. Do rest, now,” he said, and with a small pat on the man’s shoulder, he went out. 

The cold wind bit into his flesh as soon as he was out of the tent. The never-ending daylight didn’t bring much warmth in this part of the globe, and none of them were dressed for it. The Admiralty had, in their great wisdom, decided that sea travel didn’t need warm clothes for land travel.

Of course.    
\---

They walked side by side until they reached the monticule of rocks and ice that marked the barrier between the pack ice and King Wiilliam Land, But James seemed unsteady on his feet. Even if Francis would never say so, he was half-afraid the man would fall on the rocks and break his skull. Francis held out his hand and James took it as the Captain helped him up the monticule. Once up, they stood still in front of the endless land, hands still clasped together.    
  


He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could only feel the cold of the wind against his face and the warmth of James through the woolen mitten. He felt empty, in front of the rocks of the Land, as if the buzzing of his own thoughts had been lost somewhere behind him.   
  


_ A dark lock of hair laying on dirty sheets--hard breaths through cracked lips-- _

_ God wants you to live-- _

_ I’m not christ-- _

_ Deadened eyes, staring in pain-- _

_ Take my body and feed the men-- _ __  
  


Francis startled when his eyes opened again on the tundra. Nothing had moved, James’s hand was still in his. Nothing.  _ Nothing.  _

Francis shook his head. “We should go--I don’t like to let the boys unsupervised for long. God only knows what they’re up to.”   
  


James huffed a laugh as they went down from their little perch. “I can’t imagine how they will survive in London without your watchful eye. Have you decided how candid we are to be? My thought was to avoid any mention of the creature.”

“In trying to warn good people, we'd only excite foolish ones.”

“Can you imagine the bounty the Admiralty would place on a creature like ours? Oh, I'd happily live in a world with a few less foolish people in it,” teased James with a twisted smile. “Every whaling ship in Baffin Bay would head this way led by grubbing captains, but with good men in their crews,” reminded Francis. 

  
James squeezed his hand. 

“We can't risk that.” he said, and there it was again, the steely determination. 

“Our creature, you said?” It was weird. “Our creature,” like it was some sort of rabid dog they kept in their house. Like the entire island was their home--it was not. Could never be. Yet, Francis wasn’t sure England would ever be their home again.

“Whether we've earned him or not.”

“Well, you've decided it's a ‘he,’ then?”

“It is most definitely a ‘he.’” I know no kind but male to be so brutal.”

Francis sighed. “You know that by the end of this there will probably be much more things than the creature we will have to hide.”   
  


They had arrived at the Cairn and started to take out some of the stones. “Well,” said James, his brow furrowed. “We’ll just… line up our stories once we’re saved. So to say.” Francis made no notice of James’s half-eaten words.    
  


Finally, the report was out of the Cairn.  _ All is well _ , it said, and the irony made bile rise in Francis’s throat. "Graham died that very day,” whispered James. Francis stepped closer to his second, but said nothing.    
  


“Do you know, after the war, I asked permission to walk home to London from Nanking, through Tibet and Russia. I wanted to try my hand at being an overland spy. I was the best walker in the Service. I told Sir John Barrow that once without blushing.” James said with a huff. His humor had taken a tone Francis didn’t really like, but he let the man talk. “I was quick to want the world rid of its fools an hour ago. I forget sometimes how much an exemplar I am among them.” 

That made the Captain stop. “That's not how I see you.”   
  


“Francis, do you know how I was appointed to this expedition?” asked his second, raising his hands in the air in self-depreciation. “I saved Sir John Barrow's son from a  _ scandal _ . By chance, in Singapore. I paid to have a very base matter settled that would have blackened the Barrows's name, and the Admiralty's by association. As soon as I returned to London, I was promoted to commander. When the Admiralty announced there would be another attempt at the Passage, well, I only had to say the word.”   
  


“That only makes you a man.”

“Does it?”   
  


For a moment, Francis didn’t quite know how to answer. He wanted to scream, to shake James out of this, whatever it was. His second, his James, the wildest man in the fucking navy was looking down at his feet like a scolded child. It was wrong.    
  


“What you describe is a surplus of political luck. Not a dearth of courage,” Francis said, grasping both shoulders as tightly as he dared. 

“I am a fake.”

“I challenge any biographer to tally up your acts of valour and then call you a fake.”

“Francis, a man like me will do amazing things to be seen. My--my father... My father was a ridiculous man. Ruined himself with debts. He was a consul general in Brazil, and he and his wife would mix with the wealthy Portuguese families in exile there. My mother was probably from one of those families. I was never told more. I was born out of an affair. And my father's cousins had to find people to raise me. My name--even my name was made up, for my baptism. James Fitzjames. Like a bad pun. I'm not even fully English.”   
  


“I didn't know any of that.”

“I've never said it out loud before now. I always felt I deserved more. So I went to sea aged twelve, and I began to build myself a great gilded life that didn't humiliate me to live. And so all of those stories that you would have my biographer tally as courage--it's all vanity. It always has been. And we are at the end of vanity.”    
  
_ The end of me _ , Francis heard out loud. He didn’t want it, but the simple idea made something dark twist itself in his stomach, feeding on the lead and the starvation. Something he didn’t care to look at.    
  


“Then you are free. Mine your courage from a different lode now. Friendship. Brotherhood. James--” Francis put his fingers under James’s chin to force him to look up, “Do you think I, a lowborn Irish nobody, will care that you’re not of pure English descent?”

“You said this in earnest, Francis?”   
  


Both of Francis’s hands clasped themselves around James’s face, pulling it so close to his that he could feel the man’s warm breath on his skin. “Don’t you know yet?” he said fiercely--and he knew his grip was just a touch too brutal--James’s eyes were wide and open. “Don’t you know how much you’re worth, James? You are the most important one here.  _ You matter more than anything, for fuck’s sake!” _ __  
  


__ James made a sound that was half-way between a sob and a laugh. 

“Alright?” asked Francis, still holding him tightly.

“Alright.”

“Good.”   
  


Francis didn’t know who kissed the other first. All he knew was that their lips touched in the faintest brush, a complete opposite to the grip of his palms against James’s face. Yet, neither of them tried to deepen the kiss, for fear of tasting blood or something even more ominous. They stood there, brow against brow, Francis’s hands falling in a soft caress on James's neck. They shared a breath or two.    
  


“We have to go back.”

When they arrived, the marines were running.

\---

It was Irving who was stirring the camp. That alone made Francis and James share a worried look. 

“I found a Netsilik family!” said the lieutenant eagerly. “They gave me food!”

Something rushed out of Francis’s chest in an  _ oof _ and before the lieutenant had time to add anything, he found himself tucked in a crushing embrace. 

“Go on, kid, show me where they are,” Crozier said gruffly when he heard James snort behind him. 

The family didn’t have much--just enough meat to give to their sick ones, and some moss that Goodsir gave in tea and soup in a vain attempt to slow down the scurvy. Francis still thanked them profusely, not really knowing the right words for it.  _ We are starving, _ he said,  _ You saved my sons for a few more days _ . 

Crozier pointedly ignored the look Blanky gave him. The Ice Master clasped him on the shoulder as they went back to the Terror Camp. Francis left the meal for most of the men and brought some moss with him into his and James’s shared tent. Reverently, he prepared the dedoction as best as he could before giving it to James.    
  


His second looked at him wearily. “I’m not yet an invalid, Francis. You should give it to the men.” There was anger flaring behind those eyes, and somehow, it pleased Francis. Anger required energy, that was good news. “You were one of the first to show the symptoms. Don’t lie to me, I know you asked Bridgens not to tell me. I’m not an idiot, James. Now drink this.”   
  


James opened his mouth, only to close it again. Finally, he put his hands over Francis’s around the metallic mug and took it to his cracked lips. His face crumpled in distaste, and Francis couldn’t help laughing. A few seconds later, James laughed too. He laughed with a closed mouth, so as not to show the bleeding teeth.    
  


Neptune was barking slightly too much. 

There was a roar somewhere outside. 


	2. Close

Outside, it was chaos. 

The fog had risen and wrapped itself around them as tightly as a glove. Blinding them, deafening them. The ice had risen into the air. 

Francis couldn’t see a thing. His heart was a-booming in his ears, his mind running ahead in every direction, hitting the inside of his temple at each breath. The men were only silhouettes, and his eyes couldn’t make anything out of the scene because  _ nothing made sense _ . He heard cries coming from somewhere - the roar of the beast or the screaming of the men, he couldn’t be sure. 

James ran passed him, and disappeared back into the fog.

Someone shrieked and Francis ran. 

Confusion, all around him. Crozier had been on battlefield, but never something like that. He stopped by the bodies he found on the ground, checking for some sign of life, never finding anything. James’ absence to his side was like a gaping wound and there was nothing he could do. There was so much fear in him that it simply imploded. It moved, transformed into something else. 

Blanky was running (doing rageful little jumps) towards him, astonishingly quick. He grabbed Francis by the arm, dragging him behind the relative cover of a tent. 

“The fucker came from the north. Saw him kill a marine, couldn’t tell which with this damn fog.” he said, his eye twitching. “You?”

“I was in the captains’ tent with James - we heard screams. He ran off God knows where.”

Thomas gave him a side-look and a quick smirk, but his attention immediately went back to the camp in front of them. Faceless men were running around, pushed one way or another by the Tuunbaq.

Then he saw it. 

Little was in the middle of the field, looking straight ahead of him. Unmoving, as if frozen on the spot. Francis couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders were bowed in defeat, his arms limp at his side. 

He didn’t move. 

The beast was running towards him. 

_ He didn’t move.  _

__ Francis felt Blanky’s grip tight on his shoulder, keeping him from rising up. “Don’t.” growled his friend, but Francis, couldn’t,  _ couldn’t, _ for the life of him, listen. 

"Edward!" Francis shouted. The lieutenant only turned his head and gave him a blank stare, still immobile.

Francis hit Thomas’s arm to free himself, and sprinted like he never had. He threw himself at the lieutenant, pushing him on the side with all the strength of his body less than a second before the claw fell on them. They rolled unto the rocks, Francis’ back to the beast.

He felt it rise behind him. No, not  _ felt _ . He saw Edward' eyes widening, his mouth open, a cry die on his lips. His hand rise – to grab Francis? To protect himself? It didn't matter.

_ He wants to live.  _

The time seemed to slow down. He saw the shadow of the enormous paw rising on the ground. A red light suddenly flashed forwards like a meteor. It flew straight past Francis with a whistling noise and crashed on the beast’ neck. 

The Tuunbaq fell backwards with a loud, broken roar. 

Crozier’s body moved before his mind caught up with the situation. He grabbed Edward’s forearm and jumped on his feet, running towards the place where the rocket had been launched. Once they got close enough to see through the fog, well. 

James was there, holding the launcher, one knee on the ground, LeVesconte just next to him grinning like mad, matches at the corner of his mouth. Francis felt a laugh bubble in his chest. 

The beast wasn't dead, of course. At this point, Francis doubted anything could kill at all. He turned towards Edward, who was looking around, a hand on his gun. 

"You hurt?"

"No, Sir. I-" Little looked around – but there was nothing to see. In the war-smoke of the arctic smog, he looked like a lost child. "Thank you, Sir.”

To gather the remains after the attack was a tedious task. The men looked like ghost roaming the land with tired steps. They found Goodsir, hidden with the sick ones and a bag of medicine across his shoulder in the infirmary. The poor doctor was trembling, and from what Francis had gathered, he had tried as much as he could to put himself between his patients and an untimely demise. 

Francis only clasped him on the shoulder when James went for a full hug. It was very clear that if the beast had decided to attack the tent, Goodsir wouldn’t have been able to do anything. It was also very clear that the man knew it. At his side, Hickey looked as unbothered as always, though his eyes kept gazing around and the stance of his feet hinted at a quick run. 

“What happened?” asked the doctor in a surprisingly steady voice. 

“You should have seen it!” exclaimed James, “I had the canon on my shoulder, but I couldn’t aim right because of the fog. It was like… a spirit, protecting the thing. But then, Dundy ran towards me and while screaming ‘2 o'clock!”, he took the other end of the weapon and aimed. We scratched two matches at the same time and fired. We touched, it, Harry, we touched it!”

“Oh, I must say that I did a bit more than helping the aim.” interrupted  _ Dundy _ with a grin. 

Only an hour after the Tuunbaq ran away, the fog fell back on the ground in a shining, deadly pellicule of ice. 

It was luck or fortune that left the officer’s tent standing. They gathered to collect the names of the victims. Each was a blow, and when Collins was reported mauled by the beast, Goodsir slowly sat on the bare ground. 

Bridgens had put a hand on his shoulder, his big eyes sad, his brow furrowed. 

“He wouldn’t have survived.”

All the men in the tent turned towards Blanky. The ice master was leaning heavily on what had probably been a chair at some point. Blanky had this expression on his face - this glint. He raised an eyebrow at everyone’ stare, completely undisturbed. “I saw him running around, laughing.” he said, “ The man was losing it and losing it fast. I’m pretty sure he didn’t even feel it when the Beast slaughtered him.”

“He didn’t.” said Little in a low, tired voice. “He was still laughing when he died.” A melancholic silence fell on them. Little was slightly swaying on his feet, his eyes half-closed.  _ So that was what he saw.  _

Jopson rose to put his hand on Little’s forearm. He tilted his head until his eyes met the lieutenant’s. “It wasn’t your fault, Sir. There was nothing you could do.”

Little laughed a bitter, quiet laugh. No one dared add something. James dismissed the men, telling them to go and rest before they had to be on the move again. Francis stopped Edward before he had the time to move. 

“Are you alright, lieutenant?”

Little sighed. “I’m so tired, Sir.” he said, almost shamefully. 

Francis nodded. “I think it would be better if you slept in the Captain’ tent, at least for tonight.”

“Sir?”

“You shouldn’t be left alone, Edward. You need to sleep, and be safe.” seeing the dubious look on the man’s face, he smiled softly. “This is an order, lieutenant.”

When Little was out, James came to Francis, frowning. “Are you sure you want to give up our space?”

Francis took his time to answer. He knew what James was asking, what would be missed. “He won’t survive the night in this state if left alone. But I won’t  _ give up _ on our sleeping arrangement because he’s here. There are more important things to worry about.”

James stared for a moment, and then nodded. 

Later, Little took his things to James and Francis tent. He put his cot next to their, and laid, eyes open, tense. Crozier sat in the side of his canvas, and put a hand on the side of Edward’s face. “It’s alright, Edward. You can rest, now, we’ll take care of the rest. Just sleep.” Still, the lieutenant looked ready to bolt out of his own skin at any given moment. A few minutes later, James entered the tent. He took one look at them, and moved their cots just next to Little’s. Without a word, he sat down next to little, just close enough for them to touch slightly. Following his lead, Crozier went to lay besides his second, watching him undo the rags - bandages that protected his hands under his gloves. He started humming, something soft and plaintive. A lullaby, perhaps- one that Crozier had never heard.

Francis laid, his head on James’s tights, his arms folded around the other’s waist. James wasn’t a spectacular singer - or perhaps he could be but didn’t have the strength. But there was something soft, something caring in his words, in the way they rolled into the air, that made it beautiful. Perhaps, it was the fact that it was  _ his _ voice. 

Crozier didn’t close his eyes - he didn’t want to sleep. In sleep were the nightmares, in wakefulness - well. In wakefulness, there was James’ voice and Little’s warmth. I wakefulness he was living - for a few more hours. 

\--- 

_ Crozier was more sleeping than walking. _

_ He could feel it, in the air. Close. Close.  _

_ The worst thing, of all the putrids horrors that surrounded them, was the slashing sliver of hope. Francis could have laughed if he still had the energy, if his throat didn’t feel like it was full of rocks.  _

_ A step, a step, a step.  _

_ There were only twenty of them left. Half unable to walk. He wasn’t sure if he pitied the walkers of the sick ones the most. At least, once you couldn’t bear another day, once you couldn’t bear the weight of your own body, you knew the end was close.  _

_ And no one here feared hell anymore.  _

_ A step, a step, a step.  _

_ Young ghosts in old bodies. _

_ The air smelt like cold salt. Like spray, like fish, like home. Like the powerful wind in the sails. The rocks stopped.  _

_ Before them, there was a long, long whiteness of ice and snow, and after that, at the horizon- _

_ “We’re here.” Francis breathed. _

_ A few weeks before, someone would probably have run towards the sea. Shouted a great cry of relief and joy. But on this cold arctic day that looked like all the ones before and would look like all the ones after. They just stopped. They rose lightless eyes towards the immense expense in front of them.  _

_ Thay sat near a rock, huddled close together. They still had one tent packed with them, but no one had the energy to get up and assemble it. It wouldn’t do much good anyway without a fire - and they were almost out of things to burn. Exposure had taken lives just as much as every other monster here, yet it was perhaps the gentlest. To fall asleep, tired and hurting, never to wake up.  _

_ Francis wanted to live. Every man here wanted to live. Francis wasn’t quite sure why. If he had been asked, before all this, if he preferred death to what they were living, he would have chosen death, without hesitation. Yet, every time he contemplated it, the very notion escaped him. Most of the days, he forgot it was even an option. They had to walk ahead. To continue, to go on. There was no hope, no will left. Only the mechanical movement of one foot in front of the other.  _

_ Francis was so tired. So, so tired.  _

_ He felt a had slide on his and squeeze his fingers slightly.  _

\----

A week after the Tuunbaq attack, they killed the dog for its meat. Well, the 'they' was probably a little large. Hickey had come back with a bloody bag, his face relaxed, his steps sure, if slightly limping. The dog had been "found dead". 

No one believed him, but they were too hungry to care.

It was a quiet business - and a quiet meat. “At least, there's no lead in it.” Francis had said. “But there is,” Goodsir had sadly answered, “The water of the ship was poisoned too.”

A bit further away, a laugh rang into the air. Tozer was patting Hickey on the back, the smaller man surrounded by the last surviving boys.

“Long live the officer!” he chuckled to one of the ship’s boys. Said boy seemed first slightly afraid, until a big grin broke his face in a show of darkened gums and bleeding teeth. 

“Well, we were above it in the end, innit?”

“Hear, hear, lad.”

Francis turned his attention back on Goodsir. “And what is the state of the men?”

“You know it’s bad, Sir.”

“Francis.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I believe it’s time that you call me Francis. We’re at the end of the world here. I doubt that ranks matter much. I some ways, you outrank me, here. You’re necessary for everyone’s survival, now, as our last surgeon.”

Goodsir’ smile was a kind smile. It reminded Francis of a long-past life, where they still have the safety of the ships under their feet and of the food in their bellies. 

“Well, S- Francis. It’s not good, of course, but… it could be worse. The lichen helped a lot, but-” he stopped, choosing his words carefully. Then, with a tired sigh, “There are only two types of men here. The ones on the brink of death, and the ones still far away from it. It’s like - I don’t know if they just stop coming to see me when the first signs manifest. But I only have relatively sane men and patient ready to die in the hour. We’re all poisoned, of course-”

“I understand, Doctor. It’s better than what I had hoped, to tell you the truth.”

Goodsir snorted. “Then I really don't want to know what you had hoped, Captain.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll-”

“We should make gloves.”

It was - of course - Hickey that had interrupted them. The man was eating Neptune’s meat like it was the most delicious beef (and in these conditions, it probably was). He was calm and detached, as always. Perhaps it was the most frightening thing about this. 

Francis sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with the man. In a medical sense of the word. His behaviour made sense, but it made  _ too much sense _ .

“The fur.” continued Hickey, “The Silence girl, she was all in furs. We should do the same, I say.”

Goodsir look at the man, his face unreadable, but when men chimed in with a “hear, hear!”, well. Crozier nodded at the small man, causing him to slightly puff up in pride, or satisfaction. They took the fur - badly cut - and made some sort of gloves with it. There wasn’t enough for everyone, but Crozier knew that many of the gloves will pass from a dead man to a dying one as the days went by. 

It wasn’t so bad. 

Yet.

Francis had said nothing when the men had killed the dog, but he knew. They were falling down the moral scale quicker than anyone would have wished. The dog was often the last thing before men, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he could see some of the seamen staring at the corpses they left in their wake. Blanky was giving him heads up on this - on how far the men ... were. It was a silent communication, a simple look, a nod, a touch on a shoulder to mark a name. Francis knew Thomas Blanky, and Thomas Blanky knew Francis. Their minds were running on the same lines, unspoken, unknown. 

They weren’t the first men to think that a buried corpse was wasted meat. Of course. But some of them couldn't walk straight anymore. They forgot things. Two of them had become mute - not by a loss of any phyiscal abilty, but because they forgot the words. 

Francis was pretty sure that if Goodsir wasn’t so tired, he’d be crying every night. 

More and more men faded away and simply stopped waking up. Francis suspected that the men were – helping their friends along. To pass away in the dead of the night, as painlessly as possible. He had given full power in these matters to both Goodsir and Bridgens - he would take responsibility if needed be. He trusted them enough. Irving brought the matter to him – all the lieutenants did. "Let them go in peace." was the only thing Francis said. So they did.

The sun burned cold. Every night, Francis curled up against James, his brow on his second’s back, to feel his breathing. Everyday, they pulled the boats. James often sided with LeVesconte, as if trying to emulate some sort of race. 

There was a sparkle back into James’ eyes. Sometimes, as he pulled the boat alongside the men, Francis heard him talk and joke. Often enough, LeVesconte came next to him to add to the stories. “The size of a cherry!” would dramatically say James, “It killed the General Nelson in Trafalgar!” added his friend with mock surprise. 

“Tell us  _ The _ story, Captain! When you shot the Beast!”

Often, during these stories, James stopped at places he shouldn’t. His eyes went blank, lost for a moment too long. If anyone noticed, they said a thing. He was the hero: the brave captain that made the monstrous demon run away. 

The Peglar boy was the most interested by James’ stories. By learning anything, it turned out, brought Bridgens the greatest pride. Often, the boy - barely thirty, would you imagine- could be found on the side of their path with both James and Goodsir.

But the stories ended up sounding like groggily mumbled rubbish, which the men answered erratically. Hunger made them as confused as drunkards, and Francis quite knew what he was talking about. Or maybe it was the lead. This explanation was somehow worse: hunger could be cured, but what about the poison riddling their minds? 

Sometimes? the men sang out of tune - often not even the same song. It didn’t matter. The simple fact that their voices could be heard felt like something of a miracle. They gave the words for the ones that had lost theirs.

One day, one of the men fell on his knees, the rocks breaking the skin through his trousers. He laughed hysterically, until his voice stopped and he dropped dead on the rocks. Francis couldn’t remember his name for the life of him, and forgot his face.

He remembered the laughter.

That evening, Hickey went to him. Discreetly, of course, in one of the rare moments where Francis was alone. The man had the astonishing ability to slither everywhere unnoticed. Perhaps it was because of his size - or his posture. 

“Captain, a word.” he asked bodly.

His face was entirely serene. But since the start of the long walk, Francis had learnt to read some of the shifts in Hickey’s expressions, in his moods. Hickey almost always smiled - when he didn’t, it was out of rage or confusion. But his smile had twitches. The head tilted up and slightly side-way when he tried to charm you, shoulder relaxed, hands in front of him, already reaching. Eyes almost closed, as if bathing in the sun, shoulders squared, when he was in control. A stare, never leaving you out of his sight, teeth showing, when you were a threat. Still, always, a smile.

Now, Hickey was leaning against the side of the boat. Face down, eyes on Crozier, hands folded in front of him. 

“I know what you want.” Francis said before the man had the time to open his mouth. “And it’s a no.”

“What I want?”

“Don’t take me for an idiot, Mr Hickey. I thought we were above that.” he waited until Hickey nodded slightly to continue. “I will not stoop so low, and I will not ask my men to do it either. What you’re thinking about is out of the question.”

Hickey looked at him dubiously. “You will find, captain, that our morals are very often dictated by our survival. Now, you look at me like I’m a monster - give your men a few more weeks and they’ll all be like me. I’m just planning ahead.”

“I said no.” He looked at Hickey a moment and sighed. “And not because of morality.” It wasn’t totally a lie, but well. “In a few weeks, perhaps. Doing so now would only create mutiny - of the worst sort.”

The dark thought. The very idea that they wouldn’t be saved, that there was no hope. It crept on Crozier more and more every day. He had to resist, if only a day more. 

“Very well.”

There where four deaths that day, and there would be three more the next. It went on and on and on, men dying or snapping one after the other. One to the seamen threw himself at a marine without reason, only to be shot down. 

How long? Crozier kept wondering, How long until they all snapped? How long until the men ceased to obey and started killing each other, smearing even more blood on the ice?

One would have said that the chill had entered their bones. Crozier knew for sure that it had entered his brain.

\---

James Ross could almost have forgotten the reason behind his journey. The arctic was splendid in it's grandiose harshness. The sky was stained with blades of white, the glacial wind brushing the mens’ cheeks. The rocks laying out onto places unseen, ice-frozen sand cutting the ground. The dark waters of the sea where covered in puddles of white ice, like a painting, like drops, like the breath of the deep, clanking against the ships. The arctic was a world of changing stillness. 

As he put his foot on King's William' land, James Ross took a deep breath. 

\---

The lieutenants had gathered in the tent, all looking expectantly at him. 

“That is not our way.” he said. “If we are to deposit anything to return to it at a later date, it will be things, not men. I’d rather we leave our tents behind and sleep two a sack like the orphans we are than to leave one man alone with his last burdens. And I speak not only for James. I’ll not leave any of you alone either.”

He looked at Thomas, who smiled gratefully. The now lieutenant looked frailer than ever, his usually kept hair too long and dirty. Francis hated to see him so, but was comforted but the very idea that he could still  _ see  _ him. The boy was barely twenty - yet holding himself better than the more experienced men. 

But Thomas was  _ sick _ . Thomas was  _ dying _ and how the very idea made Francis boil inside! His very being seemed to rebel against the possibility and he knew that he would have done anything to stop it. But there was nothing to be done. 

_ There was something but he refused to let his mind stop in the notion _ .

_ There was something. _

Edward pursed his lips, but said nothing. Francis would have asked if the man wanted to be left behind himself, but couldn’t bring himself to do so. Instead, he patted the lieutenant’s arm in what he hoped was a comforting way. He wanted to say that he would not leave Edward behind either, but he hoped he knew that already. 

That night, Edward took his cot back into Francis and James’s tent without a word. A few minutes later, Thomas followed him. 

“Is it alright, Sir?” he asked softly. Francis smiled and tucked an unkempt lock behind the young man’s ear. “You are always welcome in my home, Thomas. Even when said home is an old, dirty tent. 

Thomas made a noise that could have been a laugh, or a sob. Maybe both. Francis wrapped an arm around his shoulder and helped him lay down. 

\---

A week ago, they still buried their dead. Now, they just let them drop, the living too tired to carry them, to afraid to stop walking. Yet, each time, they all walked closer. The ones that weren’t dead where put on the boats, but all of them knew the boat was as much a death sentence as anything else. 

Yet, Francis stood on his words. They would leave no sick behind. 

As they moved south, the temperature dropped. 

\---

It was Bridgens that went to him, when they stopped. The newly-appointed crew doctor looked around, trying not to look suspicious. Which made him look very, very suspicious. Blanky groaned next to him, making Francis crack a smile. It vanished as soon as he saw the fearful grief on Bridgen’s face. 

“ Captain Fitzjames told me not to tell you, Sir, but by the life of me, I can’t-” he stopped and looked down. Francis didn’t dare move, or speak. He didn’t dare breath. “There are fifteen open wounds on Captain Fitzjame’ body.”

Francis closed his eyes, absorbing the blow. They had managed to arrive here by the scrap of their teeth, and yet now -

The ugly thing in his stomach was roaring again. The strange thing was: if James had been dying a few weeks - no, a few days - before, Francis would have mourned and cried. And carried on, because he was the captain and that was his duty. Because he prided himself on being a decent human being, if not a good man. 

But now, after having seen the life come back into James’ eyes, and he couldn’t bear for it to be smothered again. He knew the terrible truth of human vulnerability to violence. He didn’t want to hurt, he didn’t want to do wrong. Of course not.

There was only one thing he had to do. 

He turned towards Blanky. His old friend was looking darkly at him, with something akin to recognition. 

“Is there something we can do to help him, Mr Bridgens?” asked Francis.

Brigens pinched his lips. “Nothing but food and rest, and I’m afraid we’re short of both.”

_ Food, _

_ and rest.  _

_ Food _ . 

Before he even realised it, the decision had been made. He could seen it in Tom’s stance behind him, in the way his own feet were placed, as if ready for a fight. 

It had never been his decision, really. Yet, he was the one that would take it. 

He turned to Tom. To his oldest friend, the one who knew everything, even the darkest parts. Even the things Francis didn’t know himself. His brother in more ways than the ones that shared his blood. 

He turned towards that man, and nodded. 


	3. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worse thing in their falling wasn't the ineluctability of it, but the way they still had hope even as their souls left their bodies in digust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter!  
> I want to thank my beta for this one, adlertypewriter, for the wondeful work. As I am not an english speaker, I tend to leave some mistakes, but luckily I have them to catch me :)
> 
> Big Tw for this chapter for violence, cannibalism, angst, the usual Terror problematics.

“Ah, you finally came,” said Hickey, tilting his head slightly to the right.

Francis had often compared him to a rat in his own mind. Some -more disposed individuals - may have said a fox. The color of his hair, the smile full of teeth. But now that starvation had taken its toll on him, Francis may have been inclined to go for a bird. A scavenging bird. 

It was strange, how this place changed men. But as everyone around him was wasting away, Cornelius Hickey seemed to be as immutable as the rocks under their feet. He didn’t lose hair, he didn’t lose his smile. His lips were barely patched - and his wound had settled quicker than anyone could have predicted. If this place was making them honest - was discovering the truth of them, then the truth of Hickey was him being himself. 

Francis sat warily on the mats on the floor. 

He didn’t know where to start. How do you ask someone to find human meat for you? Should he give an order? ask as a friend? They weren’t friends, not by a long shot, but Francis had carried the man on his shoulders for days, and there was now some sort of respect in Hickey’s eyes. Now that he thought about it, even during the lashing events, even as Hickey talked out of turn, he was always looking for some sort of acknowledgement from the captain. Recognition, perhaps. 

_ Hickey, cutting his tongue- _

“Have you heard of the  _ last resort _ , Mister Hickey?”

Hickey started a moment, a small knowing smile on his lips. “I presume this is about our previous conversation.”

Crozier sighed. “More or less. I’ve made calculations. Even if the tins were good - and you and I know they aren’t- considering the miles left to walk, there is not enough to manage the end of the walk.”

“And this has, of course, no link whatsoever with the declining health of Commander Fitzjames.”

There was a stretch of silence. 

Of course, Hickey was enjoying this. Enjoying the destruction of the rules he had fought against since day one, enjoying the power that grew on him in this disaster like mold on bad milk. Enjoying the perceived humiliation of Francis himself, perhaps.

Enjoying talking to Francis like an equal. 

The corner of Francis’ lips twisted upward. He had an inkling that there was no use in lying where the truth was already known. Hickey would not bow to decorum. Worse: he would take it as an insult - and Francis had a very good idea of what the man could do once insulted. He had dreamed of it. 

“ We need to make sure there is still a semblance of order.”

“Is that what you told yourself when you had me whipped, like some sort of great mock-rape, when you were too drunk to even stay steady during the whole thing?”

Now, there was something hitting behind Hickey’s coldly friendly tone. Something darker, a monster swimming towards the surface, gliding just under. This was personal. Francis knew he had broken something when he had ordered the whipping. Hartnell had become repentant, after it. Hartnell had managed to grieve for the death of his brother, and even somewhat befriended Dr. Goodsir. Hickey, on the other hand… 

They had been very close to mutiny, hadn’t they? He had felt it, the anger, the heavy resentment, the stares on his neck. 

“I am a captain, Mr. Hickey. You disobeyed orders and lacked respect  _ in front of the lieutenants _ . Even if I had wanted to, my hands were tied - and you and I know that I really didn’t want to either way. I have to do the best in the worst of situations. And I trust that you will too, if only for your own sake.”

Hickey tilted his head again, his whole posture entirely relaxed. He hummed in what Francis took for an assent of sorts. 

Francis’s hand were white-knuckled on his knees. He was the captain. He would bear the fallout of this, he would take the blame. 

“We’ll need others, we can’t do this in secret.”

“We can-”

“We won’t.”

\---

Tom had managed to gather all the lieutenants - all the lieutenants that could still stand. The swell of pride at seeing Thomas Jopson here among them was quickly crushed by the searing knowledge of the position such  _ honour _ would put the boy in. 

It was Francis that had put him there. 

Sometimes, it felt like some sort of curse. Every good thing happening to them in this cursed place was only another knife to be stabbed in their backs later on. Francis was scared that at some point, he wouldn’t let anything good happen to them anymore. Just in case. 

Thomas put a large, calloused hand on his shoulder, his face somber.  _ I know you  _ he had said one day. Nothing was more terrifying than that, at this point. 

All the lieutenants were looking at him expectantly. Hodgson was looking steadily at his feet. 

_ Ah _ . 

It was almost funny how Hickey’s men were betraying themselves on a daily basis since the Tuunbaq attack. As if Francis would do something against them - as if Francis would hurt them. Perhaps he would have, a few months ago. 

Francis was barely seated when Mr. Hickey entered the tent, quickly followed by sergeant Tozer. Hickey took a chair and sat at the table like it was the most natural thing in the world. Fearless. Tozer stayed standing, his gun in front of him, like some sort of ill-matched bodyguard. 

Hickey’s smile was blinding. “Gentlemen,” he said, as if to answer the shocked expression on the lieutenants’ faces. Francis snorted, attracting the attention back to himself. 

“Captain, what is  _ he  _ doing here?” asked Little. His eyes were wide and sad, half-hidden behind his long locks of dark hair. 

“Mr. Hickey is here on my invitation, Edward.”

Disbelief settled on the lieutenants like snow on the land. Francis sighed, suddenly weary. His heart was beating far too strongly in his chest - out of fear, stress, anger? He didn’t know how to start this. He didn’t know how to tell them what was going to happen, what he knew would happen all along. 

He remembered the day he had asked the Doctor Goodsir his silence about the tins. He remembered he had asked the man to lie, to let the men poison themselves, to avoid -  _ delay, delay, delay - _ this inevitable situation. He remembered it now with some sort of hysteric amusement. 

“As per our last counting, it appears that we are running out of tins.”

Silence. A shift - from Edwards. Nervous. Of course, they all knew what was going to happen, even if they didn’t yet put words on it. “We will, of course, send more hunting parties, but considering the luck we have had until now, we’ll have to… rely on our own sources. As a last resort.”

There was a sharp intake of breath among the lieutenants. 

“Captain, this is wrong!” said Irving, half-standing up in outrage. His eyes were wide and his palms flat on the table -  _ Stabbed twenty times, cut up and cut open, wide eyes staring at the sky _ . 

“So is dying, last I heard,” drawled Hickey. 

“You! Of course, I should have known that you would have been the one putting this… this  _ dirtiness _ in the Captain’s mind!”

Hickey’s eyebrows raised at the double-meaning -Irving probably hadn’t even realised it. “I assure you that I put nothing inside the Captain’s mind, Irving.”

The lack of honorific wiped the air with as much efficiency as a cat-o-nine tail. Hickey was sitting his back straighter than most men- as if he wasn’t tired- as if he wasn’t affected by the horror around them. The simple idea was maddening. 

“He did not. This was a possibility myself and Captain Fitzjames had foreseen from the very beginning of our walk. We had… hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But things as they are - there is no other…” he stopped, looking for the word. It was at the tip of his tongue. He opened and closed his mouth, struggling, trying to push his mind to find it - and was only rewarded with a great nothing. 

“Solution, Sir?” asked Jopson softly. 

“Yes, solution. Thank you, Thomas.”

“Sir, are we really doing this?”

Jopson was trembling. Even from where he was, Francis could see it. The boy was trying to hide it, standing stiffly, holding his metaphorical ground. He was eaten alive by scurvy, sores on his face, his cheeks hollows. He looked like he could just fall to the ground right here and now. 

“No!” cried Irving, “It’s- we’ll be damned! This is inhuman, this is-”

“It will happen whatever we want it or not.” hissed Blanky, “All the Captain is doing is trying to avoid a slaughter. Get over yourself, boy!”

“I won’t! I’m sorry, Sir, but I won’t do it!”

Francis raised his hand in peace. “No one will make you do anything. The rules are simple because they were here for years. No one kills no one. Everything that’s already dead is fair game.”

“Here for years, Sir?” asked Little. The lieutenant had been so quiet from now that Francis had almost forgotten he was here. Little had gone quieter and quieter since the last Tuunbaq attack, as if waiting to simply fade into nothing. Edward who had been the one suggesting to leave the sick behind - not realising that he was sick himself. His eyes were always too wide, his breath always shaky. 

Francis sighed. “We’re not the first lost expedition that lack food, Edward,” he said softly, “and we surely won’t be the last.”

Little nodded in the sudden silence. “I’m with you always, Captain.”

“Me too.” approved Hodgson somewhat a bit too quickly. He looked down and did something that was probably a blush under everyone else’ stare. Yes, of all of them Hodgson had probably been the most prepared for this. If only because he was part of Hickey’s circle.

“Well, I won’t!” cried Irving furiously. He looked at them all with disgust and went out of the tent. If there had been a door, he would have slammed it. 

“Sergeant Tozer, would you mind go and look for Lieutenant Irving? It would be disastrous for him to do something stupid right now.” Tozer threw a questioning look at Hickey, who nodded his approval of the order. 

Francis stood out and look at each and every man around him. “I am sorry, my friends, that it came to this. If you have any preoccupation on this subject, know that you shouldn’t fear repercussion in England of your acts here. What happens in the North, stays in the North.” 

\---

Hickey was walking like a man on a mission. He quite was, after all. One would have said seeing him that it was probably a quite cheerful mission, and then again, what would bring more happiness than the prospect of having food in one’s belly again?

He shot a great smile at Goodsir when he walked past him. The doctor looks confused and frowned, to Hickey’s greatest enjoyment. It took him about a few seconds to find Bridgens near the medical tents. 

“Mr. Hickey, can I do something for you?” the newly-appointed doctor asked. 

Cornelius smiled at this, his hands clasped in front of him. “Yes, I actually think you can.”

“You… don’t seem sick, Mr. Hickey.”

“Oh, I’m not.” Hickey huffed a chuckle, “I’m perfectly fine, I assure you. I’m here on Captain's Crozier… advice.”

“...yes?” 

It was very obvious that Bridgens was getting tense. He had stopped to wipe his hands on the once-white sheet. 

Hickey sighed. “Do you know what is in the tins?”

Bridgens tilted his head “Well, it’s written on them, I’d say.”

“You and I know that it can be anything. But we ate it, because it was the only thing at hand - despite the poison that’s inside.” Hickey said. Bridgens was far from a stupid man, and the frown between his brows deepened significantly. “The thing is… there’s almost no tins anymore.” Hickey sighed. He hadn’t seen things unfolding like this - he hadn’t imagined himself having so little power at the point this would happen. “We need someone that knows how to cut a body.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. If you want to do such - such a horrible thing, you will do it yourself.”

“If I do it myself, it will be slow, and there will be waste. Time and waste we can’t spare right now with the number of men we have to feed. I cannot ask Dr. Goodsir - the man would probably have a seizure and we need our surgeon alive and well. You are the only choice for this task.”

“No one will accept it!”

“You’d be surprised at how many already have.”

“No!”

It was almost a scream, and Bridgens made a large move of his arm as if to shield himself from the very idea Hickey was putting in his mind. There was a searing anger in these eyes - one Cornelius was sure few had seen before. The small man jumped forwards and grabbed said arm with a surprising strength. 

“You won’t have to partake if you do not wish to - but I highly doubt that. Think of your boy, Mr. Bridgens.” He grabbed the arm tighter and pressed himself so close that Bridgens had no choice but to look at him. The man was breathing hard and looking at him furiously - both for the intrusion and the notion itself. “You love him, right? Everyone can see that. He’s a soft boy, I know. Pretty;  _ Young. _ ” The noise Bridgens was making reminded Hickey of these wounded animals left to die on the pavements of London. His blood was drumming in his chest, but his head felt light and he had a hard time stopping his face from smiling. There was so much power here, in his own hands. “Would you let him die, uh?” he asked in a confidential whisper, “Waste away until his mind cannot work, his words slur until his hands and his face turn black, until he cannot even recognise you or himself, until-”

“Stop! Stop, I beg of you. I’ll do it, just - please stop.” Bridgens cried. He lowered his head, his chest heaving as if his own emotion would choke him. Hickey felt a twinge of pity for the man. To have such weaknesses - at times like these… You don’t go to hell with your most priceless possessions. That’s just not done. 

“I’ll do it…” panted Bridgen, “I’ll do it…”

“Very good, Mr. Bridgens. I’m sure we’re all glad of your help.

The noise Bridgens made than could have been a snort, or a sob. Hickey got out of the tent, leaving the man sitting alone on one of the cot, his shoulder down. Defeated. 

\---

When he came back, Hickey seemed to be faintly glowing. He threw some  _ -food- _ in Francis’ hands with that luminous, vicious smile he had given him after his own lashing. 

Crozier looked at the plate with a trembling breath. 

It wasn’t the time to be a coward. Too many lives were at stake. 

James was sitting on their shared cot, held upright by leaning on a pile of clothes-covered rock. 

Crozier sat next to him, the full plate staying pitifully between his hands. 

“So it came to that, after all.”

“Yes.

A beat.

“We didn’t, that is to say, kill for it. If it’s of any help. James, James look at me.” James tilted his head him, trails of blood on his forehead. “I won’t make you eat it, James.” Francis said, taking his second’ hand in his. The words burned in his mouth. “It is your choice. Your choice alone.”

James looked at him with a tired, sad smile. His thumb caressed Francis’ knuckles as if it was Francis that needed soothing. Perhaps it was.

“I guess it was vanity too. To think we were above everything else. To think we were above meat.”

“James-”

“It’s alright, Francis.”

Francis didn’t know what to say of his friend’s apathy towards this last indignity. The cloud looming over his head wasn’t the one of doom anymore, and the poison in his veins seemed to be less lead than misery. He was the leader of these men, the example.

He had given the order for this. He had thought it out, prepared, declared laws.  _ Laws _ . as if it was a simple hunting party, as if what was on his plate was only some wild beast. 

He stared at the reddish food on the plate. At least, whomever had prepared it ( it probably wasn’t Hickey, knowing the man as he did he would have eaten it raw) had made it appear less human. 

In retrospect, he wasn’t sure it was a good thing. 

Crozier took his cutlery - obscenely proper in this - and meticulously cut the piece of meat. Slowly, he took it to his mouth, trying to swallow the dread before the food. Finally,  _ it _ touched his tongue.

It tasted like - meat. There was no lightning, no explosion. No horrible consequences, no flashback of the life it had been a part of only a few hours before. Nothing but Crozier and the gruesomeness of his act. 

He swallowed. 

He didn’t feel anything. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is. 

It was just that easy to become a monster. 

Francis put his plate aside and laid down on the ground. It was strange how it felt incredibly solid below him. How comforting a warmth to know that they had fallen and could fall no further...

He felt James’ hand slid into his and squeeze. 

How comforting…

\---

Francis saw Jopson sitting on the rocks, slightly out of the camp’s circle. One would have thought he simply was on watch if not for the slump of his shoulders and the way he leaned on his gun. 

The camp was eerily silent. There was nothing moving but the flaps of the tents pushed by the wind. Soon, they would not be warm enough to even hope to avoid frostbite in their sleep. 

Francis sat just next to him in silence. The young man looked worn, not like he had since a very long time. Even walking should be hard for him now - truly, Francis didn’t quite know how he stood on duty, how he stood on his feet. 

“What is troubling you, Thomas?” he asked softly.

Thomas rose bright blue eyes at him in surprise. “Nothing, Sir.” he answered unconvincingly. 

“Thomas, I know there’s something on your mind. You should tell it now… Things that stew, here, don’t end well.”

Thomas lowered his face, struggling with his words. His hands clenched and unclenched around his gun erratically. “You said we wouldn’t hurt the sicks, Sir.” Francis nodded to encourage the boy. “But- Little and LeVesconte already said-” He stopped a moment, looking around, as if afraid said men would hear him “They already said they wanted to leave the sick behind. To leave them for dead. And now…”

Thomas turned toward Francis, almost trembling. “Now what will stop them from hurting the sicks?”  _ what will stop them from hurting me?  _ “ The idea is already there - and- and we all know it will only get worse from here -”

“Thomas.” Francis took the young lieutenant’s face in his hands, wiping the tears with his thumbs. “My boy…” he said shakily. He engulfed the man in a strong embrace and felt Thomas’s arms clutching at his back. “Now, you listen to me, son. I won’t let them hurt you,” he growled in the lieutenant’s dirty hair. 

“I feel so weak…” Thomas cried in his chest and Lord he sounded like a lost child, “I feel like- like my body is being crushed by the wind, like the Erebus was crushed by the ice!” Thomas clung tighter to him. Francis thought that it was the very first time he had seen Thomas show any type of concern about his own well-being. 

Thomas leaned back and angrily wiped his tears with his sleeves. They had already started to freeze. “I’m sorry for that, Sir, I shouldn’t have-”

“Thomas, I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything, Sir.”

“If at any moment you feel threatened. At any point, no matter what the situation is, I want you to come to me.”

“I’m not sure-”

Francis clasped Thomas’s shoulder too tightly, and the young man winced slightly. “You have to promise me, Thomas. If not for you, at least for me. I wouldn’t forgive myself if something that I could have prevented happened.”

Thomas’s hands clasped around Francis’s wrists. “I will, Sir. I will.”

\---

Goodsir was taking care of one of the sicks under Silence’s watchful eye when the murmur of the voices alerted him. He waved his hand towards Silence. _ Stay here.  _

The second he saw the men undress on of the seamen he was sure he had buried not long ago, Goodsir  _ knew _ . Forgoing his glasses, his coat, forgoing to even wipe his bloodied hand, he ran. 

“Stop!”

He was stopped by one of the marines and bodily pulled back. 

“Stop this, doctor,” hissed the man, “we have the Captain’s authorization.”

“It can’t - you can’t-”

“It’s true.” Hodgson had blood on his face - it was almost invisible with the sores and the dirt marrying his skin. But Goodsir recognised it. On his face, on his collar, on his hands. He probably won’t be able to wash it, too. The lieutenant looked at Goodsir with empty, feverish eyes. He made a sign for the marine to let Harry go. Hodgson took Doctor by the shoulder and led him aside. 

“I wish it wasn’t so too, doctor,” he said, “But we are hungry, and we want to live.” 

Harry looked at the lieutenant blankly. He felt like the lump in his throat drown into something deeper, filling the hole at the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes to stop the tears but found no tears in him. Only fear, and dread. He shot a dark, tired look at the lieutenant. “I do hope you will think the same thing, when you will be the one fed upon, Sir.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He shot another look at the men, who were now piling up the poor dead’s clothes, and turned on his heels. He almost ran back toward the infirmary. He passed from one bed to the other, tucking the men in the covers, checking shakily that none was missing. 

His gaze landed on Silence. 

He wanted to cry. He was tired, so, so tired. 

__ “You have to go!” he said, pressing Silence’s bag against her chest, “They’re eating people, you have to go!  _ Nirivuq ikinngut! _ ” His voice failed when he saw her eyes widened, her mouth open in shock. “ _ Nirivuq ikinngut _ ,” he repeated in a sob, “You have to go,” he pleaded. Goodsir lowered his head in shame, in pain. He wished to tell her that they weren’t all like that, that people in England were good, but the men here- he knew them. They had been good too, once. 

Now they were hungry. 

Silence put her palms on his cheeks and lower her face to meet his gaze. 

She stared for a moment, before her hands fell back at her side. She took her bag, and after the smallest smile, she left. 

Harry knew he would never see her again. 

He only recognised Captain Fitzjames when the man sat with difficulty next to him. He didn’t know for how long he had sat there - he didn’t remember sitting at all. 

It was strange- almost out of place. They used to sit next to one another on the ice, a lifetime ago. Just like right now, in fact. Looking at a pool, at a bird. Studying something new. Lieutenant Gore would often come with them and take notes meticulously. Commander Fitzjames would daringly jump from one pace to another to reach even the most hidden treasure they encountered…

But Gore was dead, Fitzjames was dying, and Goodsir only wished to close his eyes and become blind to the world around him. Oh, he still had awe for this place. He still saw it’s treasures, he still saw it with the eyes of a scientist, with the eyes of a child. 

There was a bitter taste in his mouth that he couldn’t erase. 

“We both knew it would happen.” said Fitzjames. His voice was hoarse, out of place. 

“You gave them your approbation.”

Fitzjames tilted his head. “Francis did. But I gave him my blessing.”

There was a silence. “Did you…?”

Fitzjames noded and Harry closed his eyes painfully. “You should have stopped it - I should have stopped it.”

“Harry, there is no other food anymore. The last cans will be eaten in three days.” Fitzjames sighed and let his head drop backward, as if taking the sun, “You and I have no right to tell these men what they can or cannot do to survive. If we stop them from eating - from doing this, they will die, Harry. As surely as every stone falls to the ground. You are a doctor, you take care of the living. The dead are out of your area of expertise.”

And with these words, he got up on his feet helped by the long stick he used to walk these days. 

Goodsir only stared at the horizon, unseeing. 

\---

Francis saw a group of the men coming back from a hunting trip with a falsely made animal carcass. He looked away. It was the end of the rope, he knew, and no one could fault them. Not now, not here. So every time a man died while the camp was up, he asked for him to be buried somewhere out of their camp, and then turned around and closed his eyes. 

Part of him wanted to scream to tell them to stop, that he had been wrong, that they shouldn’t have stood so low, but the other part wanted to puke every time he saw blood in James hair, or bruises on his arms. As long as they didn’t outright kill for it, there wasn’t much he could do against it. He couldn’t decently take the food out of his men’ mouths. He couldn’t tell them to stop doing what had been saving James. 

He was many things, but he wasn’t an hypocrite. 

The only thing that eased his mind was that the health of some of the men had, well, stopped deteriorating. Hartnell was still standing proud, Jopson managed to walk without aid.

His second, his friend, was always limping next to him, was trying to hide how frail he had become, how unsteady. Despite the food, despite the rest. Soon came the realisation that James would never walk without aid again. 

To that too, Francis turned a blind eye. What would a captain do without hope? 

They had to sleep by groups, now. Half of it was to huddle against the cold, but the other, darker part was to be sure someone didn’t die unattended in the night. 

Night had come, and James had stumbled inside the tent. Francis immediately rose to catch him before he fell on the rocks head first. James felt so thin under Francis’ palm that the Captain had a hard time swallowing. Instead, he let his hand slide on James until he was fully embracing the man. They stood there for a moment, Francis thumbs tracing gentle circles on James’ shoulders. The Commander was almost limp in his arms. A tremor ran through his body, and Francis only held him tighter as he shook. But his strength wasn’t what it was, and he started to tire. He held James by the arms, and helped him sit on the cot.

He didn’t miss his second’ wince. 

Francis did not call for a doctor. There was no need, and James would resent it. He let James undo his own bandages while preparing the new - slightly cleaner- ones. 

_ Close _ , he told himself as James wounds bled on his hands,  _ We’re close. Just a little more. _

_ Please _ .

\---

Lieutenant Irving clenched his teeth. 

His stomach was so empty it clenched on itself. He stared directly in front of him because he couldn’t carry the weight of looking at the other men - the ones dying and the one that weren’t because they had consumed their fellow men. So he gripped his book of prayers and put one step after the other. 

And one step, and one step, and one step, until the only thing his eyes could see was a big screen of white, unable to recognise the frozen sky from the frozen ground. His mind felt blank and empty. So he kept praying for himself, and for the others too, stubbornly ignoring the missing words in the once well-known sentences, the missing sentences in the once pristine faith. His whispers end more like a musique, a line of his own voice reminding him of things as they should be. 

It was a test, it had to be a test. It was the only explanation Irving had. Everything else…. unfathomable. Surely, to ask why would be some sort of blasphemy. So instead of wallowing in self-pity, Irving had taken to help the sicks. When he could, more often than not, one of the doctors would shoo him out of the tent. 

There were dark bruises on his arms that he refused to look at. Dark bruises on his knees and it only made a cyanide smile rise on his lips. Too much prayer had whispered Bridgens. Not enough, never enough had answered Irving. And as he looked around him, he only felt some sort of tuned, ever-present sadness. His body didn’t have the strength for elation anymore, it seemed. 

Everytime they stopped, everytime the  _ Terror Camp Clear _ rang into the air ( such a fitting name, he thought bitterly before burying this thought down his mind), Irving almost hid in his tent. He shared it with some of the lieutenants, but only saw them when inmeetings and at night time. Even then, he had a hard time looking at them. Suspicion grew into him everytime he didn’t hear their stomach growl, everytime they looked  _ well-fed _ . 

The sting of betrayal had paralysed him for a while, but it tuned down, drowned by the countless other horrors around them. 

So he walked, putting a step in front of the other, forgetting even the destination, forgetting even that there  _ was _ a destination, concentrated on the ebb and flow of the litany in his head. Was that grass under his feet? Surely not, it could be. Grass. Green and soft, no under his feet was white and so hard it hurt him through his boots. The dire confirmation came when he looked down. Stones. Only stones. A step, a step, a step. 

The tents had risen, somewhat unstable now.  _ Terror Camp Clear _ , and Irving prepared to go inside. A step, a step, a st-

He hit something - someone. “I’m sorry!” he said to the lump in the ground. It - he- only whined in answer. Panicked, Irving knelt next to the child - Goldling- ship boy - the child. He had a big bruise crossing his face, his eyes shining in fever. Sick. 

Immediately, Irving passed an arm behind the child’s shoulders and the other behind his knees. He groaned - Goldling didn’t weigh much anymore, but it was enough to hurt Irving’s tired arms. He half ran towards the nearest sickbay. With infinite precaution, he laid the kid down on the covers, hoping that he wouldn’t feel the ground through them. 

The child whined and Irving hushed him. 

“It hurt, Sir…”

“I know, I know Mr. Goldling. It’s ok, I’ll take care of you” he said, putting a damp cloth on the child’s brow. 

The child screamed and screamed and screamed, so much that there were tears in Irving’s eyes, because of the grief or the headache caused by the sound he didn’t know. 

Mr. Hickey entered the tent without announcing himself. He knelt at Golding’s bedside

“What have I done for this to happen? Is- is God angry with me?”

“No, of course not.” 

“I’m scared. I don’t want them to eat me, Mr. Hickey…”

Hickey took the kid’s hand tenderly, his other one tenderly caressing the damp hair. “You are christians, aren’t you, Robert? Well, see, where I was raised, there were these catholics. They said that we were eating the Christ's flesh - that it was part of his sacrifice. It’s like that, what is happening too. Hodgson would probably say it much better than I.”

“I don’t want to be a no-one dead and dust, Sir! When I’m dead, they’ll forget me like they forgot everyone else! I’d be a ghost they would know I’m here!”

“But they won’t, look” Hickey took a spoon out of his pocket. “Look, it’s your spoon. You carved your name on it, didn’t you? There, your name will go on with us even after you’re gone.”

Goldling smiled slightly, his parched up lip opening up and trails of blood drooling at the side of his face. Suddenly, his face crushed up like an old parchment. A spasm ran through the boy’s body and he clenched his teeth to muffle a scream. “I want it to stop, please! It hurt so much!” he cried. 

Hickey nodded gravely, keeping his hand on the child’s head, the other squeezing his hand. “It’s ok, Robert. It’ll be over soon…”

“You can’t do that! it’s damnation, you can’t-” protested Irving, reaching to stop Hickey’s hand that had already reached for his knife - a small thing, but sharp. Hickey’s eyes blazed in anger. 

“The kid’s suffering! What use are you to him,  _ Sir? _ What use is your god, uh? He wants the pain to stop! I won’t let him like that because you’re too much of a coward to see what must be done! So go back to your fucking watercolors and let this poor child die as he wants to!” he shouted in a whisper. 

Irving’s eyes widened and he froze. He was about to answer - something along the line of insubordination and lack of proper respect, along with all morals and common decency, when shouts outside of the tent made them both startle. 

“I told you to close that fucking door!”

Irving was barely out that his eyes well on the circle of men. The circle wasn’t like the ones Irving used to see on the decks or on ships, closed and cheering one or the other of the fighting men. No, these men were warily scattered around, looking frightened as Levesconte climbed on a sailor’s chest and proceeded to punch his face into the ground. 

Behind him, Irving heard Goldling scream getting louder and louder. His mind was overflowing. His feet moved before he thought and he ran towards Levesconte, trying to stop it. The lieutenant’s hands were bleeding, the face of the man under it was bleeding. Levesconte looked positively feral. Irving grabbed the other lieutenant’s hand, trying at least to stop him from hitting the poor man under him. Le Vesconte, feeling something holding him, gave a blind blow that caught Irving in the chest and sent him falling backward. 

Irving’s ears rang and his eyes rolled in confusion at his own fall. His mind only cleared to see a furious looking Blancky swinging his wooden leg at LeVesconte head with enough force to send the madman to the ground too. 

When Le Vesconte tried to get up on his feet, a trickle of blood running on the side of his face, Fitzjames, seemingly appearing out of nowhere pushed him back to the ground with his walking stick. Goodsir ran to the wounded sailor, but it was very clear at his expression that the man was done for. 

The scream stopped. 

Irving’s head shot to the side. The child. he had forgotten the child. 

Irving felt something leave him, his skin melt down his body. He stared and stared at the body of Goldling, unable to move. The kid’s eyes were open wide, his hands graspingthe blanket with skeletal fingers. Blood pouring from his nose, his mouth, pooling behind his head. Immobile, frozen in a broken contortion, in an unending spasm. 

He had done nothing wrong. 

It made no sense. 

He was a boy, he couldn’t have. No child deserved that. No one deserved that. 

_ It made no sense.  _

He had done nothing wrong. He hadn't lived enough yet to have something to atone for. He had smiled when given his ration, had obeyed dutifully. Had carved some spoons with his name, had played with the other ship boys. 

Everything in the tent was still. It smelt like death, it smelt like decay. 

Hickey got out of the tent, and rose his eyes towards the sky. He saw nothing by white, white, endless, looming white. 

Irving fell. 

\---

There was thirty men left. Half of them in different stages of … decay. When the body held, the mind went. The worse was when both happened at the same time. Goodsir passed his hands on his face. He didn’t know what to do. There was nothing he could do. 

He leaned on the rock behind his back. He wished that Doctor MacDonald was still with them. That, he wished most dearly. The man had a way of saying the most gruesome things with awe and warmth. Parts of men constitution of a man as a whole. Cathedrals in the skull, labyrinths in the belly, little bombs in the jaw. 

But Dr. Macdonald had died like many others, and Goodsir hadn’t had the time to grieve him, like any other. It was all meaningless, in the end. 

He turned his head, as he heard one of the men stop breathing. Twenty-nine. It wasn’t long before, attracted like a vulture on a carcass, Hickey entered. Goodsir had to look at him drape the corpse in a blanket - not for decency, but so that it would be easier to move about. Sergeant Tozer took  _ it _ on his shoulder. His still alive patient had to watch what was an hour ago their friend being taken away like game. 

“Now now, don’t look at us like that good doctor. We’re helping the men survive, just like you do.”

Goodsir’s mouth twister a little before a bitter smile stretched his parched lips. 

“I don’t know how your mother raised you, Mr. Hickey, but this butchering your fellow for food isn’t saving people.”

HIckey smiled a slow, pointy smile. 

“It is amusing that even in your spite you can only imagine that I have a mam. How naive you are, doctor. How loved you must have been- how lucky.”

Harry tilted his head in a somewhat shameful confusion. “Oh, well, I- You don’t”

“Actually, I do. She’s a very fine lady, if a little rough on the edges.” said Hickey lightly. He threw a quick smile and went out just as quickly. 

Goodsir sighed and stared in front of him. 


	4. Monster means To Think

John was screaming. No, screaming was too mild a word. He was making a sound, an inhuman sound that came from the guts. They had all frozen. 

Trapped in the ice of one man’s pain. 

Edward had ran to the other lieutenant, as did some of the other men. Crozier saw him asking frantic questions, his always worried eyes wide in tired fear. He looked at Crozier in confusion as if his captain only could solve this riddle. But suddenly, his lips pursed and his hands clenched on Irving’s shoulders. It was only this pull that stopped the man from crushing his own brow against the icy stones. 

Edwards waited until Crozier was kneeling next to them, his own palm on Irving’s back to whisper: “I think he lost his God, Sir.”

“Maybe he’ll catch Him again with  _ watercolors _ .” drawled Hickey behind them.

Francis turned to glare at him, and Hickey had the grace not to insist, even if he didn’t feel quite as resourceful as one would have wished. There was only quiet weariness in these eyes - and that was already more that what Francis had expected. 

He was the Captain, yet he didn’t know what to do. Nothing had prepared him for that. Men like John Irving weren’t supposed to be in the navy. They were supposed to stay in soft cottages where they built families and prayed every day. They weren’t made to see such things, to go through such hardships. No one was, really. 

Bitter, useless thought. 

So Francis did the only thing he could think about right now. He stayed calm, and sat on the frozen rocks. He wrapped his arms around Irving, more trying to stop him from hurting himself than anything. Little became trapped in the embrace, but didn’t try to free himself. His eyes met Francis’s - full of unnamed anguish- and he simply leaned on the hold his friend. Irving didn’t show any awareness of the new contact. Soon, Francis felt someone else - James by the feel of the limbs- wrapped himself around them. 

Then, someone else, and someone else, and soon they were all sitting close on the bare ground, silently, in a sad parody of the human piles the boys used to do when they celebrated. It felt strange, to be surrounded by all these bodies, by all these breaths, by all this warmth, but when Francis closed his eyes - only for a moment - something lifted itself from his heart. Little by little, their rhythm seemed to synchronize. 

A breath. 

A breath. 

A breath. 

In his arms, John had stopped trembling. 

\----

Every step had become difficult. Standing upright had become difficult. Breathing had become difficult. Yet, Francis moved on, and on, and on. 

One day - one night- yesterday perhaps, or the day before (it didn’t matter), he had seen John burn his bible. The Serg- lieutenant, he was a lieutenant, had stared at the fire and turned around, humming something under his breath. Something had whistled in Francis’s mind. Something ugly, pressing. 

Francis had tried to cry, but he his body was just so tired that he had convulsed, choked on himself, on emotions he didn’t have the strength to feel. 

Yet, when he had gone back into the tent he shared with - so many men now-, and had laid down on the covers, they had enveloped themselves around each other. James had held him close, his bony arm holding on to him. Francis knew this would have hurt him. 

“Tell me what you think.” he whispered hoarsely.

Francis opened and closed his mouth several times before he managed to get the words out. “I am responsible for the men - this, this is...”

A thin hand fell on the side of his face with so much tenderness the words left his mind. 

“Francis, I’m dying.”

“Don’t-”

“Hush. We both know it’s true. We may or may not be saved before I die, but for the moment, it is what it is. And even if the worst happen - I want you to know that it has been - it is - an honor to serve under you. It is a joy to be loved by you. I would tread no warmth, no food, no hope against that -the good and the bad alike. And the men are the same. You know they are.”

Francis took a deep, shaky breath. “I’d give  _ anything _ if it could save you, James.”

“You already have, Francis, and I now will continue to do so.”

They stayed like that for a long, long time- and soon the men that had taken to share the tent started to enter one by one. Little made a straight line to his bed and was asleep before he even laid down, Blanky let himself drop on the floor like it was the most luxurious bed, and, after a look at Francis, closed his eyes to sleep. 

Then, Thomas, sweet boy that he was, had come to hold his hand.  _ You don’t have to worry about anything, Sir _ . Francis would have smiled if he had the strength, but instead, his features softened. 

It had been terrible, what had happened to John. Perhaps the most terrible of all, because John was a man of faith, a man of hope. 

But hope meant that there was something else than the white they were living in, and the notion seemed further away with each blow of the wind. But Francis couldn’t help it, he  _ had  _ to believe. He was an explorer - hope was his breath. He wasn’t yet ready to stop breathing. Even if everything was white- there was still colors, wasn’t there? Thomas’s eyes were blue like a summer sky, Hartnell’s scarf was fading red, Hickey’s hair bright copper, James- James was. He just _ was _ and that was enough. The idea that these lives - all of them- were more important than ten warm summers came and went in Francis’s mind, soft as a cloud, and just as ephemeral. Soon, his mind went blank, a small light running around into nothing because he couldn’t remember - didn’t have the energy to - and the only thing that mattered was the men around him. 

_ It’s not so bad,  _ he thought,  _ it’s quiet.  _

“Do you want to play cards with us, Francis?”

Francis’s eyes snapped open. Hodge was staring at him with his big, owlish eyes intent and focused. Strangely, he was holding on quite well - his body anyway. He kept monologuing in front of the fire about whatever a man could be talking about these days, but he could walk straight, and the sores on his face didn’t look like they would eat it at any moment. 

“Why not.” answered Francis after a moment. 

It was Peglar that shuffled the cards. They sat around a makeshift bed inside the tent, with James, Hartnell (Francis had taken to calling him Thomas but it still felt strange), Edward, Blanky, and more surprisingly Tozer. Blanky threw him a look, and Francis knew what it meant - the last marine but Tozer had probably died. With a twinge in his heart, Francis didn’t comment on it. 

Peglar gave them the cards, and the men took them with more or less ease. Many fingers were stiff, frozen, but they made do. The game was slow, and no one was quite sure of the rules anymore. They just did whatever they thought they had to, and to the general hilarity, it often somewhat worked. 

“A rock would play better then you, James!” mocked Blanky with a cracked smile. 

“I sure hope not, because we appear to be surrounded.” Whispered James conspiratorially. 

“Well, maybe we should plan the battle against them, then. ‘Cause you sure ain’t winning against us.”

James grinned - bloody teeth and all- for the first time since - …- a long time. His eyes twinkle like the memory of unseen stars, and his face looked, for a moment,  _ so alive _ . 

“It’s your turn, Francis.”

The Captain blinked and put a random card on the table. It was probably not what he was supposed to do, but no one said nothing. 

The game ended when no one took any more cards. Somehow, it was decided that Blanky was the winner - the perspective of his wooden leg hitting any part of the others’ bodies made sure of that. 

Francis got up on his feet and helped James to do the same. He gave him the walking stick that wasn’t nearly enough to allow him a painless walk, but at least kept him upright. James winced slightly, and pinched his lips, cracking them a bit more. Francis placed himself between him and the men to shield him, somehow. James threw him a humorous look, and after a moment, they were ready to go. They didn’t move further than the other side of the tent, where Thomas was lying half asleep. 

Thomas’s hair was falling uncharastically over his brow. Francis sat next to the makeshift bed and pushed the locks back with a featherlight touch. Thomas had lost weight at an alarming rate - even considering the circumstances. The… food kept him somewhat out of the bad part of scurvy, but lead, and god knows everything else, were weakening him. James dropped next to him and put his fingers on Thomas’s pulse. It was a strange habit they had taken during the walks. Two fingers on your wrist to check that you would live, to show that someone cared. 

Thomas’s eyes cracked open. “Is it time-?”

“No, you still have some time. We were just checking on you, son.”

Thomas gave him a small nod and a smaller smile. Francis pushed another lock of hair back out of Thomas’s brow and put his palm on his templed, checking for fever. Thomas was tired, he knew, and everytime he saw the young man he had to smother the deep fear that it may soon be his  _ turn _ . 

As if sensing his thoughts, Hickey entered the tent in a rush of cold air. His eyes passed from Jopson to Francis and James. For a second, Francis feared a spark of violence - so easy to burn these days - but there was none. Hickey’s hands twitched, his head tilted ( _ considering, calculating, -) _ and after barely a few seconds he went. 

Francis knew there would be no exception. 

He remembered how Jopson had felt snuggled in his arms. He remembered how afraid the boy was. And when his eyes dropped back on Jopson, he saw it again. That fear. 

But Thomas wasn’t going to die. He was eating well, he was walking. He wasn’t weakened more than any other. 

Francis sighed. 

\---

Le Vesconte had run around the camp for two days. He gave no reason - but anyone who tried to stop him got beaten bloody - and more often than not, died. The man only stopped when James asked him to, to get some food, some sleep into him. When the walk started again, he was the first one to pull, and did so with so much energy Goodsir expressed the worry that the man may break his spine in a fit of hysteria. It had taken him far too long to get the words out. 

But _ Dundy  _ didn’t break his spine, neither did he stop running around. More than one, Francis found himself giving a look of weariness to Hickey, who answered in kind. They all moved on, either way. 

The temperature dropped as they moved. It was cold enough that their breaths seemed to freeze in their lungs. The people in Crozier’s tent were cold, despite the cuddling. People in the other tents were dying fast. Something had to be done. 

Crozier was surprised to find Hickey alone in his tent when he entered. The man’s head shot up and he rolled his sleeves like there was nothing to see there. 

But Francis was no fool. In two strides he had gripped Hickey’s arm and pulled back the sleeve. He felt the man tense under his arm and knew that little knife of his wasn’t far away, yet he didn’t stop. A strange, pulsating anguish was rolling in his mind, and his hand moved before he thought about it. 

There was a sore on HIckey’s arm. Another, barely hidden where the fabric was rolled up. Francis breathed in, and out. 

“Alright. Alright. It’s just the first signs.” he whispered.

“I  _ know _ .” drawled Hickey, but there was something else in his expression. Not quite softer but - something else. Francis couldn’t quite put words on it, but he thought he understood. 

“You need to go to-... to the… to Goodsir. Before it get worse.”

Hickey chuckled, and looked at Francis as if he was a child. “He won’t help me. Even if he could.”

“You’d be surprised, Mr Hickey. But that’s not why I came. It’s getting colder - and we are fewer by the day.”

Francis didn’t have to finish his idea - he knew that Hickey probably had it before. 

\---

Hickey wasn’t sure why he found himself in Goodsir’s tent. Perhaps it was somewhat better than to ask help from Bridgens - but the bet was a tight one. All of them were these days. He kept lists of the men - the ones who were alive, the ones who were meat. He knew who loved whom - it was so easy to see these days. The cold had stripped away pretences, and old sins were kept like life-lines. Other things had changed - other things were known. Irving and his tearful laughter, it took him randomly these days. Often, it made the other men laugh, like monkeys imitating each-other. Little, more tired each day and yet always on his feet, looking like he’d sell all of them to finally sleep. Jopson, always tagging along with Crozier, along with Hartnell. The two of them seemed ready to kill, eyes cold like Hickey’s on his bad days. Jopson always followed the Captain when he came talk to Hickey - and he made sure he always had a gun. Hickey had no doubt the man would use it. 

And Fitzjames. Fitzjames hadn’t changed - not a bit. He had simply shook his theater mask like one would after a play.  _ How many men have you killed, Mr Hickey? _ he had asked on day and Hickey had known the man had  _ seen  _ him before, and better than any other. They had thought him daft - but James Fitzjames was a force to be reckoned with. Eyes everywhere, mind sharp,  _ best walker in the service _ . Able to lie during his whole life, walking through it with enough calculated lack of care that things seemed to fall into place by themselves. 

And Crozier, but that was a far too long matter to ponder on. 

There were others, of course. So many changes, so many things alike. Even Hickey wasn’t spared. 

Hickey barely dreamt of the Sandwich Islands anymore. He barely dreamt anymore. He closed his eyes and let the swing of his tired mind move the earth around him. Always half- awake - always fearful of being the next one. It was enough of one sleep, one sleep, and there was no going back. 

He would live.  _ He would _ . 

And even here, standing in the middle of the sicks -  _ they should have gotten rid of them a long time ago _ \- these words branded his brain with the red hot pain of truth. He stood proud, and they were laying. What did it matter if he had a few spots on his body? He knew what they meant, he knew what was going to happen. But he was a contrary man. 

And now, strangely, unbelievably, there were other people that expected him to live. That  _ wanted _ him to, even. If that wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what would be. 

Goodsir turned towards him. He didn’t seem surprised to see him here - but again he didn’t seem surprised by much these days. 

“There are no dead for you to scavenger here, Mr Hickey.” he said simply. There was a surprising absence of bite in his voice.  _ Bite _ . Hehe. 

Hickey kept his face straight. A small smile - nothing more. Nothing to show teeth - bloody and threatening as they were. 

“I’m not here for that.”

Goodsir sighed tiredly. “And what are you here for, Mr Hickey?”

“I need bandages. For sores.”

Goodsir face didn’t move. He stared, for a moment. And then, with a tilt of his head, he show Hickey where to sit. 

When Goodsir pushed his sleeve back to look at the fresh wound, Hickey could have startled. If he was a weaker man, that is. 

“I am surprised you’re willing to help me.”

Goodsir wrapped a linen around his hand to prepare it. He didn’t look up from his work. “And why is that, Mr Hickey?”

Hickey let the doctor strip him out of his shirt. It was clinical, so far from the intimate feeling it may have provoked weeks, months, years ago. Goodsir didn’t stare, didn’t blush, didn’t even look up to check if his patient wasn’t hurt. Everyone was hurt these days, and the man simply looked too tired for that. 

Yet his hands were still soft. Yet his touch was still given with all the care, all the attention. What a strange, extraordinary man he was, their good Mr Goodsir. For the longest time, Hickey had thought he had no backbone. Now, it seemed that his backbone was in kindness. 

_ Ridiculous. _

If someone had told Hickey he would one day have such thoughts, trapped in endless ice as he was, he would have dabbed them in the neck. 

“You think I’m a monster.” he said simply, almost rudely, because of course that good, good man would look down at him. Him who would survive. 

Goodsir wrapped the linen around Hickey’s wrist. “I am going to teach you something, Mr Hickey,” he said quietly, “ and it may be the only thing I will ever teach you. Do you know what monster means? It was fixed in our tongue as malformed, animal, defectuous. It comes from old french, and from latin: a divine omen, a sign, an abnormality, something repulsive. Something of dread, awful deed. An abomination. From the root of monere. To warn. From the Indian  _ moneyo _ .  _ Men- _ . To think. A monster means  _ to think _ . 

Hickey tilted his head. Was that a compliment? 

“You are no monster, Mr Hickey. You do not make people think. And that’s the worst of it: you are just painfully, wholly, rudely human. You’re like everyone else, no matter what you like to think.” Goodsir looked at him, and Hickey saw something - some sort of bitter amusement in the once kind eyes. “I cannot do more for you, Mr Hickey. Kindly get out of my sick tent.”

Hickey smiled. He wondered absently if he could get away with stabbing the man in the temple - right there so he would see the surprise in his eyes. 

Was a strange man, their good Mr Goodsir. 

\---

Francis’s breath was coming short. His body protested against the effort, and yet - yet he didn’t feel any pain. He felt light, everything felt light. 

He had been alerted by John’s laughter. Hie ears had rang, his heart started to beat faster. 

Edward and Le Vesconte were giggling like children. Edward’s face was covered in blood and golden chains. Irving, from the sidelines, seemed to find it extraordinarily amusing. 

Goodsir’s eyes widened when he saw the lieutenant. They had seen many things - a great many things they shouldn't have, and yet, the world seemed dead set on surprising them again. 

“Edward.” he said, but the lieutenant’s eyes were still lost somewhere else, “Edward, child, why - why did you do that?”

Francis raised his hand to cup Edward’s face - but he couldn’t get himself to do it. The back of his fingers barely brushed his cheek before the hand ended up on his shoulder, featherless. 

“I just wanted to make them laugh, Sir… Have to take care. Have to.”

Francis sighed.

“Oh, Edward.”

“It worked, didn’t it? Did I do well, Sir?”

Francis didn’t answer - he didn’t know what to say. Goodsir threw him a look from Edward’s other shoulder. The poor doctor clearly was in no better state. It was only when Jopson and Tozer entered the tent that Francis decided to get out of it. 

\---

Crozier was more sleeping than walking.

He could feel it, in the air. Close. Close. 

…-

The worst thing, of all the putrids horrors that surrounded them, was the slashing sliver of hope. Francis could have laughed if he still had the energy, if his throat didn’t feel like it was full of rocks. 

A step, a step, a step… 

He didn’t know how many of them were left. When they stopped, he didn’t dare to look. Selfishly, his gaze landed on some - James, Blanky, Hartnell, Jopson, Goodsir…- but without will, without intent. Guilt threatened to choke him before even the cold managed to. 

The ones that couldn’t walk... He wasn’t sure if he pitied the walkers or the sick ones the most. At least, once you couldn’t bear another day, once you couldn’t bear the weight of your own body, you knew the end was close. But you also knew what would come after, after,  _ after _ . 

And no one here feared hell anymore. 

A step, a step, a step. 

Young ghosts in old bodies.

The air smelt like cold salt. Like spray, like fish, like home. Like the powerful wind in the sails. The rocks stopped. 

Before them, there was a long, long whiteness of ice and snow, and after that, at the horizon-

“We’re here.” Francis breathed. Croaked, screamed. He wasn’t sure of what he did and what he only thought.

They just stopped. They raised lightless eyes towards the immense expense in front of them. It was all white, dead and endless. 

Thay sat near a rock, huddled close together. They still had one tent packed with them, but no one had the energy to get up and assemble it. A torn sheet covered them all. 

It wouldn’t do much good anyway without a fire - and they were almost out of things to burn. Exposure had taken lives just as much as every other monster here, yet it was perhaps the gentlest. To fall asleep, tired and hurting, never to wake up. 

Preserved for the others. 

Francis wanted to live. Every man here wanted to live. Wasn’t quite sure why. If he had been asked, before all this, if he preferred death to what they were living, he would have chosen death, without hesitation. The reasons were- forgotten, drowned in the light cloud of urgency. 

Yet, every time he contemplated it, the very notion escaped him. Most of the days, he forgot it was even an option. They had to walk ahead. Not to do so was unnatural. It demanded so much energy. Only the mechanical movement of one foot in front of the other. 

Francis was so tired. So, so tired. 

He couldn’t sleep. He  _ couldn’t.  _

He felt a hand slide on his and squeeze his fingers slightly. The darkness was humming behind his eyelids. The world was heavy on each of his blinks. He wanted to say something to the person behind the hand, to the person behind the flesh touching his. Something meaningful - he had known the words, a long time ago. Now, they eluded him like fog between fingers. 

There was a silence, and Francis almost felt one of them open their mouth.

“The one that starts to sing is gonna get slapped.” he grumbled.

“C’mon Francis.”

\---

It was the voices that led them here. 

At first they thought it was only the wind. A deep rumbling against the mountains of ice. His eyes were so focused on any clue - on what they had already found. Abandoned equipment, corpses. The scurvy must have been in them since already so long… His mind had gone down every road possible. 

And then it had risen. James had made sign for the men to rush - to go towards the sound. 

There were unmade tents. 

_ Oh please, please, please _ . 

And then, suddenly, at the corner of a rock, they were face to face. Francis - oh  _ God _ \- Francis. He looked like a corpse. Eyes staring straight ahead, unseeing, beard too long, hair almost all white, face stabbed with a thousand lines of pain. Like his face had tried to imitate the land. 

“Francis?” he asked, not daring to move closer. 

He barely recognised Jopson. Fitzjames looked like a ghoul - a nightmare. Most of the men had guns at the ready, startled by the sudden encounter. 

There was a silence. 

“Lads, am I hallucinating? The- the voice?”

“Francis.” rasped Fitzjames, lips cracked and eyes bloodshot, “I see him. I see him and I heard him too.”

“He’s there alright. And not alone, too.” said a small, rat like man at their side. “Looks like we’re saved.”

And suddenly, it was like the entire ground had sighed. Tension flew away and the men’s shoulders dropped slightly. 

Ross was by his friend’s side in two long strides. 


End file.
